


All These Searches

by WerewolvesAreReal



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Academy Era, F/M, Romance, Russia, Russian characters, Starfleet Academy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-12
Updated: 2015-03-12
Packaged: 2018-03-17 14:00:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3531911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WerewolvesAreReal/pseuds/WerewolvesAreReal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pavel Chekov is happy to meet Irina at Starfleet Academy - but, he might like the idea more than the person.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All These Searches

**Author's Note:**

> In case anyone has forgotten, Irina Galliulin is mentioned in 'The Way to Eden' as being once involved with Chekov during their time at Starfleet Academy. (Yes, the space-hippy episode).

Pavel Andreievich Chekov does not think much of Academy life.

They laugh at him, is the thing. “Moscow,” they say. “What is Moscow? Who needs Russia?” They take pride in Earth, and forget Russia. He is a _Terran_ member of Starfleet now. That is meant to be his only identity.

There is a Caitian woman in his physics class who tilts her head when she hears him speak, her ears flicking back. “Ah,” she says, and peers at him with slitted eyes. “You are not human, then?”

“Of course I am human.”

“But you do not speak like them?”

Pavel flushes.

Some people speak in their native languages, and let the Universal translators smooth out their accents, as it does so easily. Most learn Standard with painful precision.

Pavel does neither.

“I am not ashamed of my speech,” he says. And the Caitian looks doubtful, but does not mention it again.

He is a good student. There is that, though his professors are wrong in many things, and cling to strange notions of learning that preclude Russia. “No, Pavel,” they sigh at him. “Russia did not invent the Terran airplane - “

“But Alexander Mozhaisky - “

And they move on.

Then, one day, he hears something. A lilting voice, not unlike his own, that questions a professor, and protests,

“Didn't you know, Sir, it was Nikolay Pirogov who made anesthesia? He is a hero. I do not know why he is not recognized more widely.”

Pavel looks.

The woman's dark hair is down in a simple step-style, and her face shines with pride. As though she feels his gaze, she turns, and meets his eyes.

He smiles.

* * *

 

Her name is Irina Galliulin, and she does not call him Chekov, or even cadet. Sometimes he is Pavel, 'Pahvel', the word hummed from her throat, and sometimes he is Pasha, and either way he is happy.

“It is so warm here,” he tells her one day, watching a group of cadets walking briskly to class. It is winter, and some people are complaining of the 'cold'. Cold, in San Francisco!

Irina smiles at him, and it is a secret smile.

“Come,” she says, and takes his hand.

They run to the transporter site on campus, where a bored technician is standing by.

“Oh, Sir, Sir!” Irina cries, without telling Pavel anything. “You must help us!”

“What?”

Her eyes glitter with slyness; but her voice is distraught.

“It is our brother, Sir, he is so sick - “ her accent thickens with tears - “Oh, please, we just got the news - “

Pavel is so startled he just wraps an arm around her, and before he really knows what is happening the flustered technician has been convinced to let them through.

And soon they are in Moscow, and Irina is giggling, and Pavel is shaking his head in disbelief.

“You are mad,” he says.

“We can be mad together,” she says.

And he thinks he can love her.

* * *

 

They start officially dating in the spring; but by summer, Irina seems struck by melancholy.

“Are you homesick?” he asks.

“I think we have different ideas of home,” she tells him, and won't say anything more.

But then she seems better, so he puts away the idea when classes resume. Perhaps the lack of activity just made her restless.

Irina is an excellent scientist, but sometimes Pavel wishes she would study more. “Let's go dancing,” she will say, laughing, tugging him away from the library.

“Ah, Irina, I have a test tomorrow - “

“So, skip it, you are an excellent student.”

“I am an excellent student because I do not skip tests.”

But, she never ceases to be exciting; there is that.

During the long nights they walk outside, and she spins and spins as they walk. She never likes to stay still. “Isn't it beautiful?” She sighs, craning back her head to look at the stars.

Pavel looks up. “That reminds me,” he says. “I have an astronomy test tomorrow.”

He looks at Irina.

She is not smiling anymore.

* * *

 

They both love winters in San Francisco – at least more than the too-hot summers – but Irina sinks into herself this year. She starts asking odd questions. “Ah, Pavel, what do you think of the universe?”

“The universe?”

“What do you think of creation?”

“I do not know what you mean.”

“I mean how it was made.”

“What, mathematically?”

And Irina looks at him, and laughs, but she is not amused.

“Mathematically,” she repeats. “Mathematically... Oh, you are strange, Pasha.”

“Sometimes I think you are the strange one, Irina.”

She doesn't deny it.

He hears that she is doing poorly in classes; but Irina, herself, does not talk of such matters, so he doesn't bring it up. If she wants help, she will ask, and he will not embarrass her by offering.

Then, in the spring, a lieutenant catches Irina on the southern grounds. She is delusional, half out of her mind under the influence of alien hallucinogens. “I just need to find something,” people report her saying. “I just need to find it... To find something...”

She is put on suspension. Pavel visits her as she packs her things.

“Why did you do it, Irina? Do you want to leave? Do you want to get kicked out of Starfleet?”

Irina turns at him, and all at once, with shocking clarity, he sees the fatigue in her eyes. “Do you hate me, Pasha?”

“Hate you?”

She keeps talking. “I'm going to Moscow. I need to find... I need to keep looking. I can't be myself here. And you don't... you don't even care, do you? I hope you can be happy, in Starfleet. If that is enough for you.”

“I don't understand.”

“I know, Pavel.” She comes to him, reaches up, and kisses his cheek. “I know.”

* * *

 

He expects her to come back; he really does.

Then, a few weeks later, he gets the word that Irina has pulled out completely from Starfleet.

The ground slips from his feet. And after awhile, when he can breathe again, he goes to the transporters, pulls Irina's own trick, and gets sent right to Moscow. 

He searches.

He finds her eventually – though it is not easy – staying with a few friends in a run-down house. 

The man who answers the door smells powerfully of alcohol and onions. His eyes are red-rimmed and shot through with bulging capillaries. He looks Pavel up and down. “You aren't Gavriil,” he says.

Pavel pushes through.

Two women are slumped on a couch in the main room, speaking lazily, and don't bother glancing up as Pavel comes by. One laughs suddenly, and tilts over, staring at the ceiling. There is a vial on the table next to her without a label, and rotting food on scattered plates around the room.

He finds Irina in the back.

She's reading a book. It is not, strictly speaking, a Russian novel. It is  _The Unbearable Lightness of Being._ It is not a happy book. She is smiling.

“What are you doing,” he asks.

“It's so right, Pasha,” she says. “And so wrong, too. Ah, ah.  Бог правду видит.”

Somehow, he does not want to hear her speak Russian. Not now, not here. “Stop it, Irina,” he snaps. “Tell me. Explain yourself.”

“Explain myself, express myself. Hide myself. So strict. Pasha.” Irina looks at him.

The smile is gone again.

His throat is constricted, his heart shuddering. “I'm going to leave,” he warns.

“So leave,” she says, stroking her fingers over the book. 

He trembles.

Her dark eyes lower to the book.

So. He does.

“Больше слушай, меньше говори,” he hears her whisper behind him.

When he leaves, the man at the door seems confused again: 

“You aren't Gavriil,” he repeats.

* * *

 

“Do you want to work on your accent?” asks his linguistics professor.

“No,” Pavel says, again, again. And he looks outside, where cadets are shivering under the San Francisco sun. “ - I am proud of where I am from.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Бог правду видит. There is One that is always on the lookout. (Means: God sees the truth)  
> Больше слушай, меньше говори. Be swift to hear, slow to speak. (Means: Listen more, talk less)


End file.
